


The Bloodbath Files

by Cavanaughpark09



Category: Cormoran Strike Series - Robert Galbraith, Strike (TV 2017)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, F/M, Gen, Multi, Police, Sirens, Vampires, Werewolves, Witches
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-25
Updated: 2021-02-06
Packaged: 2021-03-11 03:01:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,669
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28297935
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cavanaughpark09/pseuds/Cavanaughpark09
Summary: After patrolwoman Robin Ellacott is attacked by a rogue werewolf, she finds herself assigned to the supernatural division of the Met, and along with her new partner, the enigmatic Cormoran Strike, on the case of an unknown creature attacking women.
Relationships: Ilsa Herbert/Nick Herbert, Robin Ellacott & Cormoran Strike
Comments: 26
Kudos: 28
Collections: Denmark Street Discord Sekrit Santa 2020





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [RobinVenetiaa](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RobinVenetiaa/gifts).



> For RobinVenitiaa’s prompt of Supernatural/Mythical AU. All Americanisms are my own.

-

-

_ There are nights when the wolves are silent and only the moon howls. _

_ -George Carlin _

-

Robin tugged her hair into a high, tight ponytail, checking the mirror to tuck a few stray hairs behind her ears. She straightened her vest over the crisp, white shirt she’d ironed just that morning, and placed her hat on her head.

As she passed from the locker room back out to the front desk she found Hutchins waiting for her, swinging the keys of a patrol car around his fingers with practiced ease. Two paper cups were stacked on the counter in front of him. 

“Coffee or tea?” she asked as she joined him.

“Tea with milk and two sugars. Coffee waits until after dark on the night shift,” he replied easily.

“What would I do without you?” she mused, picking up the top cup and holding out her other hand for the keys. “I’m driving.”

“Oh, are you?” He raised an eyebrow, turning and heading for the door to parking. 

Robin walked with him, “It is supposed to pour half the night and I’m the better driver.”

Despite having fifteen-odd years on her, and knowing London like the back of his hand, he passed her the keys.

Robin grinned triumphantly. She had to adjust the seat drastically to reach the brake and gas after whoever had last driven it, but she was much more comfortable in the driver’s seat as they pulled out of the parking lot and headed toward Chelsea.

Robin was closing in on five years with the Metropolitan Police Service, to Hutchins’ nearly twenty, but he’d been the greatest blessing to her career. He’d  _ listened _ to her and helped her build up her confidence by letting her take the lead. He also never quibbled about letting her drive.

“So,” he spoke again as they crossed over Battersea Bridge, “They posted the dates for the next detective’s exam.”

“Did they?” Robin asked mildly, keeping her eyes fixed firmly on the road.

“Robin,” he pressed, “You could pass that test in your sleep. I’ve been quizzing you for over a year.”

“Every time I think about that exam, I dream about nothing but people dying,” she told him. “Plus, if I did that, I’d have to move on to a DI position in another department without youand leave you.”

Hutchins huffed out a laugh, “You do realize that they will assign me a fresh new recruit to train up. You’re going to be an amazing detective; my loss will be Investigations gain.”

“I know,” Robin agreed.

She’d fantasized about being an investigator since she was a child. Her family had been surprised enough when, after earning top marks in psychology at university, she’d immediately sat for the basic police exam. Hutchins was the first person whom she’d confided in, and who had actually taken her seriously.

“Is it Matt?”

Robin glanced over at him for the briefest of moments before turning back to the road, sucking in a sharp breath as she turned on the blinker and smoothly turned down a side street. She was determined not to blame her fiancé for this.

“Robin?”

“He hates my shifts now; a detective’s schedule is unpredictable, and the hours are sure to be longer.”

“Jen and I had a discussion before we had kids, you know. I told her that my hours weren’t going to get any shorter but that I was happy on patrol work. We agreed that if I was happy to stay at that level and have ample time to be involved with the kids, I wouldn’t go up for any promotions that didn’t make life easier for all of us. You and Matthew need to have a real, honest conversation about what will work for both of you.”

She’d tried that. More than once.

“Or you can just leave him because he’s a twat.”

“Andy!”

The radio crackled to life, cutting her off before she could chastise him properly, setting them on the first task of the night.

When they finally did stop for coffee it was fully dark, and the skies had opened up. Robin reveled in the warmth of the mocha as she sipped it slowly. The weather seemed to have driven most people inside and their night had been quiet. Hutchins had only brought up the detectives’ exam twice more.

The radio once again crackled to life.

“304, come in.”

“This is 304,” Hutchins responded.

“We’re getting reports of a large dog loose off King’s Road near Paultons Square. Half a dozen calls have come in and animal control can’t get there for half an hour. Can you head over to the area, see if you can find it?”

“On our way.” Hutchins replied as Robin pulled smoothly away from the curb.

They were only a few blocks away, and with few cars on the road they made good time. As Robin was turning the car onto King’s Road she was forced to slam on her breaks as a blur of dark fur darted onto the road.

The car skidded several feet on the wet pavement before stopping completely, but Robin’s eyes were focused fully on the figure in front of them. As it had darted into the road she’d thought it had to be the dog they were trying to track down, but as the car stopped she realized it was far too big.

She and Hutchins sat frozen for a moment as it turned toward them in the beams from the headlights. It was enormous, bigger than a man, and as it straightened and looked at them Robin’s hand went instinctively to her taser. The eyes were glowing in the light, but more concerning, whatever it was, it had fangs.

“Fuck.”

Hutchins was already on the radio, calling for backup. Once it was confirmed he exchanged a glance with her and they both pushed open their doors.

The creature bounded off again in the direction of the park and they both ran after it.

“Stop! Police!” Robin shouted as she sprinted, adrenaline pumping through every inch of her. Hutchins was faster than her, and with his longer stride was gaining on it more quickly more quickly.

“Stop!” he yelled, and whatever it was, did just that, spinning around to face them and letting out a roar that shocked both of them. Robin skidded to a halt as Hutchins set off his taser, watching as the prongs bounced uselessly off of the animal’s chest. A frightened gasp bubbled up from her throat.

With no time to react the creature launched itself at Hutchins, knocking them both to the ground and rolling across the road in a tangle of limbs. When they came to a stop it was clear that Hutchins was bleeding. That jolted Robin back to reality.

She shouted his name as she started toward him, drawing her baton. The creature spun toward her and before she could even raise her arm to strike it had lunged out and caught her across the sternum with a massive, clawed hand, knocking her back and to the ground. Her breath rushed out of her lungs as flames of pain laced across her entire torso. 

She couldn’t move. Fear or shock, perhaps a combination of both, kept her pinned to the ground as she heard the beast retreat back to where Hutchins was trying to lever himself into a sitting position, cradling an injured arm against his chest. Another giant swing of its arm sent him sprawling again, his shoulders hitting the pavement with an audible thwack.

“Andy!” Robin screamed just as the creature let out another deafening roar. Its clawed hand struck out again and she heard a sickening crack. Hutchins stilled.

There were sirens drawing closer now, as it turned to her. She wanted to scream but her chest was on fire. She tried to scramble backward on the pavement as the creature looked her up and down, snapping its jaws. It had her; there was no way she could get up and run in her state.

Another roar broke the silence, approaching quickly from the south, and the creature’s head snapped in that direction before it sprinted away. Another blur of a figure passed, dark and even bigger than the one that had attacked them, galloping after it and disappearing into the rain.

Finally Robin was able to force herself to move, leveraging herself to her hands and knees, crawling toward Hutchins. Her entire body was screaming in agony, but as the first reinforcements screeched to a stop on the road, she fell back to her stomach next to him, grabbing for his arm.

His eyes were still and glassy, blood being washed away by the rain from the gash in his arm, and the massive crater of a hole in his chest. As if her body knew there was nothing more she could do to help him, the pavement rushed up to meet her as everything faded to black.

-

When Robin came to, she was aware first of the pain. Her chest felt as though it had been cracked wide open and her entire body was feeling the consequences. The second thing was the beeping of the machines monitoring her vitals and the smell of antiseptics and latex. She groaned as she blinked her eyes open to the, blessedly, lowered lights of the hospital room.

“Ellacott, can you hear me?”

Sergeant Grainger stood over her, concern etched across her features.

She nodded, forcing a cough past her dry throat that sent a ripple of pain through her chest.

“Don’t try to talk, Ellacott, damn it. Take it easy, you punctured a lung and they had to remove your spleen.” She put a hand comfortingly on Robin’s arm.

“Do you remember what happened? You and Officer Hutchins were attacked while on a call.”

It all flooded back, and she turned her head frantically to both sides. 

“Hutchins?” she forced out. “Where’s Andy?

Grainger took Robin’s hand, mindful of the IV, “I’m sorry. He was announced on the scene.”

Tears threatened to spill; Robin wanted to scream, but she held them both back. She looked at her sergeant instead, “Did you catch it?”

Sergeant Grainger shook her head, “They called in special forces to go after the man who did this to you, told us it was a confidential matter and haven’t given us any further updates.

“The doctors want you to rest. You really shouldn’t be talking, but I wanted to be sure someone was here when you woke up. I’m sure they’ll have a DI up to talk to you soon, to ask you about what happened, but I’ll try to buy you another days’ rest if I can.”

Robin nodded, not sure she’d be able to speak again without starting to scream or cry.

As the sergeant gathered her things to leave a nurse came into the room, speaking soothing words to Robin, explaining her injuries and the surgery she’d been through, but Robin didn’t hear any of it, too consumed with the vivid memory that was replaying in her mind. It was only the mention of something to lessen her pain and help her sleep that just barely caught her attention. Before she could protest she was fading back into darkness.

-

When Robin woke again, she felt hazy, like she was floating, with the pain dulled to a low burn. The room was dark, but as she rolled her head to the side, she found a man sitting in the rigid hospital chair next to her bed. He was thin, with a mop of dark hair and an angular face. He was watching her closely.

“I’ve been wondering if you’d wake up soon,” he said, as though sitting there had been an inconvenience of the highest order.

She blinked at him.

“I’m SDI Wardle,” he introduced himself, flashing his badge too quickly for Robin to focus in on it. Had Hutchins been there, he would have yelled at her for not asking to examine it more closely. “I’m here to talk to you about what happened the other night.”

“D’you mean last night?” she asked. “The animal.”

“Tuesday night,” he told her. “It’s early Thursday morning now.

“I spoke to your Sergeant,” he went on when she didn’t respond right away. “Your partner took the brunt of the attack. I’m sorry he didn’t make it; by all accounts he was a good officer.”

Despite her efforts to be stoic in the face of an unknown investigator, a tear spilled down Robin’s cheek.

“Did you catch him, it- whatever it was that attacked us?”

“The threat has been neutralized. No one else will be hurt.” His eyes were glowing brightly, even in the dark, watching her closely. “We’ve had our eye on you for a while Miss Ellacott. You’re a good officer with good instincts. I was hoping we would get to have this conversation after you’d passed your detective’s exam, somewhere less… foreboding.”

A bitter laugh bubbled up and escaped before she could tamp it down.

“You’ll have plenty of time to study while you recuperate, I suppose. I’d like you to come and work for me once you’ve passed.”

“I’d tell you I’d consider it, but you haven’t told me what department you work for, DI Wardle,” Robin replied coolly. This did not feel like a regular debrief.

That got a crooked smile out of her visitor.

“You are not wrong,” he agreed.

“You also haven’t asked me a lot of questions about what happened,” she went on. “Which means you already know. So, let me ask you a question: what exactly was that thing that attacked me and Hutchins?”

“That was a rogue werewolf.”

His answer was given so matter-of-factly that Robin was stunned into silence. For a full moment, the two of them stared at one another, until, clearly pressed for time, Wardle continued on.

“You’re probably wondering why you don’t feel like you should laugh me off the face of the earth for telling you that. The drugs they’re giving you aren’t that good, I promise. The reason is, you’re actually asleep right now, so that lack of pain or extreme feelings is to be expected. That’s the state most people need for this conversation to actually sink in.

“I work for the supernatural division of the Met. All those monsters you’ve read about in fiction and the one’s you’ve never heard of, they’re all real. Some of them are good, and some aren’t, which is why I need you to heal, pass your detective’s exam with flying colors, and come work for me. I know, once you wake up, this is going to feel like a lot and you’re going to question if you’re losing your mind, but I promise you Ellacott, you are not.”

He pulled a card out of his wallet and pressed it into Robin’s hand. 

“You’ve seen something most people will never know exists, and you lived through it, which isn’t often the case if you haven’t been trained. Think about it and call me if you’re interested.”

He didn’t wait for Robin to reply, just turned around and disappeared seemingly into thin air.

To say Robin was confused would be an understatement. She was also furious, wanting to believe that it was all a joke, and that she’d wake up in her bed the next morning with all of this having been a nightmare. 

The floaty feeling was growing stronger, and she looked around to find something to ground her, to keep her from falling back into the black of medically induced slumber. Just before she faded back to sleep her eyes caught the outline of a large figure outside the opaque walls to the hall. Someone was guarding her room. With that sense of safety, she let herself be pulled under.

-

Finally, Robin pulled herself out of the darkness of sleep to meet daylight and an empty hospital room. A horrible ache stretched through her entire torso, and a plethora of other body parts felt strained from some kind of overuse. 

She was just trying to push herself up into a seated position when a nurse entered the room.

“Oh no, you lay back down,” she scolded. “After I take your vitals I’ll raise the bed. You’re on some strong sedatives; they’ll have someone in within a few hours to help get on your feet.”

That would explain the strange dream that she’d had; the man raving about mythical creatures in London.

The nurse flitted around, checking readings from the machines, and looking Robin over, before cranking the bed into a sitting position. Robin’s head swam for a moment before she regained her equilibrium. She brought a hand up, lifting the hospital gown they’d fitted her with to look at the bandages on her torso.

“Some kind of animal attack, was it?” The nurse asked, her scolding tone gone, “It says here they want to start you on rabies shots. It’s not common here, but such violent attacks aren’t frequent so it’s better to be safe than sorry. They’re pretty painful. Do you think you’ll be up for it today?”

“Something like that,” Robin replied. “And yes, as soon as possible. I’ll be fine. Is my fiancé here?”

“Visiting start in an hour. I expect he’ll be along then. I’ll get the injection, then?”

As she left the room Robin shifted, clenching her fists at the sharp pain that lanced up her sternum. Something crinkled in her hand, and when she opened her palm there was a crumpled business card there. Flattening it between her fingers she could make out the simple text.

**SDI Eric Wardle**

There was a phone number scrawled across the back of it in slanted handwriting. 

A cold chill ran down her spine as she neatly folded the card. Before the nurse returned, she set it on the bedside table where a folded shirt and pair of jeans sat, a sign that Matt had been there and knew she was on the mend. She tried to wrap her mind around it, what had happened in the past two days, the attack and the fuzzy memories of a bright-eyed man at her bedside in the dark. 

The nurse returned and, without much fanfare, swabbed Robin’s skin with alcohol and delivered an injection into her abdomen.

The sharp, intense pain pulled Robin completely out of the fog. She was alive and Andy Hutchins wasn’t - she had to make something of it.

It was nearly a week before she was released from the hospital, an overabundance of caution the doctor’s had insisted on due to the nature of her injuries. Matt was there every day, undoubtedly holding back his opinion that Robin rethink her future employment until she was home and recovered.

He was by her side when she left the hospital, and a dutiful nurse for her first few days at home. Once they were home, however, the not so subtle hints that she should find a different career before they moved forward with their life, came rapidly and continuously. It made it a lot easier however, on the first day he went back to work, leaving her at home alone, for her to register for the detective’s exam online and then to pick up the phone and dial Wardle’s number.

\- 

Six months to the day of the accident, Robin found herself standing in Wardle’s office as he passed over her shiny, new badge. She felt like an entirely different person than she had while on patrol. Four months of intense physical training had made her strong and sinewy, a change that was still easily hidden by clothing. She’d absorbed book upon book about mythology, supernatural science, and psychology. 

She was stronger physically and mentally. She’d left Matt, it had only taken one forthright conversation where he point blank asked her to pick a career with less likelihood for danger and injury, and she’d simply replied that she was moving forward where she was, even if it was without him.

Wardle had arranged a room for her with SDI Vanessa Ekwensi, who had been a wonderful ally and resource during her training. Even outside of training there had been a steady stream of new faces, and Robin’s first time knowingly meeting people who were, for lack of a better descriptor, something else.

“I’m a unicorn,” Vanessa had told her, the first time Robin had asked her if she was human. After that she gave a different answer on nearly a daily basis, always with a completely placid tone.

Wardle’s eyes were glowing again as he slid the badge across the desk to her. He was an incubus, which Robin had learned, was not as malevolent a species as she’d initially guessed. It certainly gave him an advantage, being able to move through dreams to get information.

“Congratulations,” he told her, wryly. “I had my doubts, but you made it through.”

“You did not.” Robin retorted, “You poached me from the Met the minute I passed my exam and set me up with Vanessa as a mentor.”

That brought the crooked grin that Robin had long grown familiar with back to his face.

“I know it’s the end of the day, but I’d like to introduce you to your partner. The assignment’s actually come through on time so you’re not spending time at a desk. That alright?”

“Of course.” Robin was eager to get started.

Wardle rose from his desk and walked with her back out into the bullpen. It was nearly empty, but that was something Robin was looking forward to about this job, substantial time out in the field.

“Barclay,” Wardle called across the room to one of its occupants, “Where’s Strike”

“Down the pub already I think?” came the reply, a thick Scottish accent. 

He was shrugging on a coat himself and crossed the room to join them. “Are ye the new DI then?” he asked, extending his hand to Robin. “Sam Barclay, DI and press liaison.”

“Robin Ellacott,” she smiled as she shook his hand. “Nice to meet you.”

As she said her name there was a flicker of recognition across his face, something that Robin had found common within the department. Her attack had apparently been big news. 

Wardle’s put-upon sign resonated, “The Tottenham?”

“Yeah, I’m on ma way there now.”

Wardle turned to Robin, “How do you feel about going down the street for a celebratory drink then?”

“Yeah, I could use a glass of wine.”

She walked down the street with the two men to the Tottenham, a place she was familiar with already, thanks to Vanessa’s insistence that she get to know the regular watering hole for the supernatural force. Barclay wished her luck as they hung their coats and disappeared into the crowd.

Wardle looked around the crowded bar, finally spotting who he was looking for and motioned for Robin to follow him toward the back of the room. The crowd made space for them and they came to a stop in front of a table covered in pint glasses. There was a solitary man behind it, another pint in his hand.

The man behind the table was large, both tall and broad. He wore a massive wool coat despite being inside, but was casually dressed, his clothes rumpled from a day on the move, two buttons undone at the top of his shirt showing a patch of thick chest hair. Strong arms braced on the table as he looked up at them. He had bright, piercing eyes and a mop of dark, wiry hair. 

“Strike,” Wardle greeted him. “Didn’t you get my email about meeting me at the office?”

“Must’ve missed it,” the giant replied, lifting the pint glass to his lips. He didn’t sound the least bit concerned about running afoul of Wardle’s command.

Wardle looked wholly unimpressed.

“I wanted you to come and meet your new partner.”

The man, Strike, snorted, “We’ve had this discussion. I don’t need a partner.”

“We have,” Wardle agreed, “But this is DI  _ Robin Ellacott _ .”

He motioned to Robin, who Strike clearly hadn’t realized was there. 

“I’d like you to impart some of your experience and knowledge to her. Robin, this is Cormoran Strike. He’s been with us for three years. Before that he was in the army, SIB. There’s an equivalent branch there so he is  _ extremely _ well versed in dealing with mythical creatures. He’s undoubtedly got the most varied experience on the whole force.” 

Strike was looking at Wardle with a pained expression on his face. Wardle was looking back at him coolly, and Robin was sure they were having some kind of silent conversation with their eyebrows.

She stepped forward and held out a hand, “It’s nice to meet you Cormoran.”

He looked her over, in a way that was clearly appraising, taking in her mettle and her impeccably pressed black uniform. Finally, he reached out a large hand and shook hers solidly.

He looked back at Wardle again before letting out an obviously annoyed huff.

“One month,” he told Wardle. “If it doesn’t work out you assign her to someone else.”

Wardle nodded.

Strike turned back to Robin, “I’ll meet you at the office tomorrow morning at 9 o’clock. No uniforms, dress plainly and be prepared to be on the move around London.”

“Are you sure?” Robin looked at the table of pint glasses between them.

Strike’s eyebrow rose as he looked back at her. “I don’t get hangovers.”

-

-


	2. Chapter 2

-

-

Strike woke the next morning to a blinding headache, but not from the drinking. The first few days after a full moon always left him with an aftermath of discomfort, as if he didn’t have enough of that in his life already.

He took a moment to get his bearings before getting out of bed, hobbling across the tiny attic flat to the restroom. After relieving himself and splashing some water on his face he downed several paracetamol and lit his first cigarette of the day. He wasn’t sure what awaited him in the office, but it was certainly not going to be the peaceful, solitary day he had been expecting.

He left off his prosthesis until he dressed, fitting it carefully before rolling the leg of his trousers down and straightening it more carefully than normal. It wouldn’t do him any good to show even a modicum of weakness to a new partner, even one as green as Robin Ellacott.

It had been a low blow on Wardle’s part; he’d been trying to pair Strike off for the past three years with little success. Either the prospective colleagues were put off by his gruff demeanor, his lack of patience for incompetence, or his periodic difficulty with the moon. That was why he arrived at the office a full hour before he’d asked DI Ellacott to meet him there.

Wardle’s office door was closed, but Strike opened it without knocking, letting himself in as Wardle looked up sharply from where he was on the phone. Strike sank into one of the chairs, gracing Wardle with an expectant tilt of his head.

It took a moment for Wardle to disentangle himself from his conversation and set the mobile back on his desk.

“Gooner,” he greeted. “I should have expected you to show up.”

“It was a low blow, showing up at the bar like that, with her in tow,” he growled. “But I think you already knew that.”

Wardle crossed his arms over his chest. He’d long since stopped being intimidated by Strike’s cool glare. 

“I don’t need a partner,” Strike told him, enunciating each word. “I certainly don’t want one.”

“Yes, you’ve made that crystal clear every time we’ve made the attempt in the past.”

Strike lifted a hand, the gesture clearly communicating an unspoken ‘What the fuck?’.

“Why do you think we asked you to join the department, Strike?” Wardle asked. “You’ve got more experience than any three members of the department combined. We need you to share that knowledge with the rest of the team, to show the new recruits the ropes.”

It made sense and Strike knew that, but the situation was still less than ideal.

“Why Ellacott?”

“She’s completely new to the department, I want to see what you can mold her into.”

“So, she’s useless?” he asked.

“I, most emphatically, I’ll add, did not say that,” Wardle warned him. “Robin has talent. She caught our attention because of her success as a patrol officer. You should see the twats she’s chased down and collared. I was just waiting for her to take the detective’s exam so I could make a connection. The attack just sped up that timeline.”

Strike thought back to the night of the attack, the pictures he’d seen of Robin and Hutchins’ injuries over the next few days. They’d been particularly grisly.

“You really think, after that, she wants to spend her days slogging around London with a werewolf she’s just met?”

Wardle picked at the cuff of his shirt, not meeting Strike’s eyes.

“You fuck,” Strike muttered, “You didn’t tell her.”

“I haven’t told her a lot of things; the fact that you’re the one who took down the loner before it had a chance to kill her for one.” Wardle admitted, “It’s not up to me to out the members of our staff. Tell her when you think the time is right, until then she’ll just think you’re a regular investigator like she is. Vanessa’s shown her around, she’s met a few people, but you know it’s better to not overwhelm someone new.”

“Ekwensi?” Strike raised an eyebrow; she wasn’t his biggest fan.

“Yes, Robin’s been living in her spare room.”

Strike grunted. Even better. “I still think you’re making a mistake.”

“You said a month last night,” Wardle told him, picking up a large folder and holding it out to Strike. “Teach her everything you can in a month and at the end I’ll assign her to someone else.”

“Fine,” Strike acquiesced. “What’s this?”

“The Bloodbath Files.”

Strike’s eyebrows rose; everyone in the department had heard about this set of incidents.

“I thought you were putting Carver on this?”

Wardle scoffed, “If I wanted these declared suicides and accidents, maybe. I know you’ll get to the bottom of it.”

He turned to his computer, obviously considering the matter closed. Strike took an extra moment to glare before driving himself up out of the chair and back to the bullpen. More of their staff were starting to trickle in for the day’s shifts.

Strike purposefully kept his desk sparse and impersonal. The only identifying item was an ‘I heart Cornwall’ mug that Ilsa had given him as a gag gift. There was a bottle of wolfsbane-laced whisky in his bottom drawer, along with a silver-tipped dagger that wasn’t strictly to code, but he kept it reliably locked.

Strike sat at his desk and opened the packet Wardle had given him, giving each of the folders a cursory glance, dividing them into piles based on demographics. Best to get a start and give his partner the rundown when she arrived then.

Soon after he caught sight of her entering the offices with Barclay, smiling and exchanging pleasantries. She was dressed smartly in trousers and sensible brogues. The rest of her was covered with a long trench and carefully tucked scarf.

Once Barclay had disappeared into the kitchen she looked around, spotting him and approaching slowly. The desk across from his was empty and had been for months. She sank down into the chair, quiet until he looked up at her.

“Good Morning,” she greeted him, her expression guarded. She shrugged off her coat to reveal a smooth cream sweater that showed off ample, attractive curves.

“Morning,” Strike replied gruffly. He expected by now she’d had the chance to ask Ekwensi about him, and knew about his reputation as a solitary, grumpy git.

“Has Ekwensi mentioned the Bloodbath case to you?” he asked.

She shook her head, “She’s not given me information on active cases while I’ve been training.”

By-the-book, then. He should have expected that. Strike picked up a stack of four folders and placed them on the desk in front of his new partner.

“We’ve got an appointment in two hours. Before that I want you to familiarize yourself with these files.”

“Anything specific?” she asked.

“Wardle just handed me the files half an hour ago, so absorb as much as you can. I’ll be reviewing the other half, so we’ll have a solid basis for the victims.” 

She nodded firmly before reaching across the desks and picking up his mug. 

“Well, if I’m going to dig through all of this, I’m going to need some tea. How do you take yours?”

“Black,” Strike said, meeting her eyes as she stood. He nodded his head in the direction Barclay had gone earlier. “Kitchen’s in there.”

She headed off without a word and Strike opened the first of the folders in front of him. He’d already reviewed the ones he’d given her, deeming them straightforward enough. The face staring back at him from this file was familiar, and he flipped quickly away from the picture to the victim profile and crime scene analysis.

A mug of creosote-colored tea was placed on his desk a few moments later. He reached out and drew it into his space, taking a long sip and he tried to dissect the details on the page in front of him. By the time he thought to look up and say thank you he found the new detective deep in one of her own files.

The next time his concentration was broken it was to an undignified harrumph.

“Are you sure these cases are connected?” She asked him.

Strike took in that she had a standard-issue laptop open in front of her. She turned it to him, showing him a map, as she went on.

“They all seem to be different crimes, so I plotted them out to see if they happened in the same neighborhood but they’re from all over London.”

“Don’t worry, Ellacott,” he told her. “It’ll make more sense after we see Dr. Herbert.”

“Call me Robin,” she replied.

Strike arched an eyebrow but nodded, and watched his new partner go back to her laptop, beginning another search. He’d slipped a few pages from each of her reports, essentially giving her the versions someone at the Met would have seen, to see if she’d find anything interesting before giving her the pages that dealt with the supernatural elements of the case.

Finally, Strike closed the files in front of him and stood, shrugging on his coat. Robin copied his motions and followed him out the front door of their offices. Strike immediately lit a cigarette as they walked in the direction of the nearest tube station.

“So,” Strike asked, “What have you found?”

Robin still looked cross as she responded to him. “The women in those files are all between the ages of 26 and 32. Aside from that none of their demographics seem to match. Like I told you, they’re from all over London, different races, different socioeconomic classes. They don’t have any friends in common on social media that I’ve found so far, and it doesn’t look like their jobs would have brought them into contact with one another.”

Strike thought of his own files; the same could be said for them. Though the victim they were going to see was an outlier, much more recognizable than any of their others.

“Where are we going?”

“St. Thomas’.”

-

Strike was familiar with the walk to the morgue, in the depths of the hospital’s basement. Robin followed him wordlessly, with an air of calm he hadn’t expected of her. A familiar face greeted them when he pulled open the door to allow her walk in before him.

“Oggy!” his friend Nick called out as the door swung shut behind them. “How are you, mate? Who’s this?”

Strike locked the door securely behind them before he took the few steps it took to reach the doctor in front of him, clapping him on the back in greeting. 

“I’ve been worse,” Strike told him, “This is DI Robin Ellacott. She’s working the Bloodbath case with me.” He half-turned, introducing her as she reached out to shake Nick’s hand. “Robin, this is Dr. Nick Herbert, he’s our contact in the hospital.”

“Your contact?” Nick asked, “I’ll be sure to tell Ilsa that’s what you said. I’m sure she’ll be pleased after you skipped out on curry last week.”

Robin was looking between them with interest and Strike resisted the urge to roll his eyes.

“Nick and his wife, Ilsa, are old friends of mine. Known each other since we were teenagers,” he explained briefly.

“This wouldn’t be the same Ilsa Herbert that Barclay reports to, would it?” Robin asked. “He asked if I’d met her yet this morning.”

Nick laughed, “One and the same.”

“Let’s make sure we have good news before we introduce you to Ilsa,” Strike told her. “She’s not a woman to piss off.”

“I suppose you’re here to see the latest?” Nick asked Strike.

Strike nodded as he pulled a pen and notebook out of his pocket, “Thought you might have some insight to share as well, given the circumstances.”

He felt a bit of regret at having to have said it when Nick grimaced, but ever the professional, he motioned for them to follow him, leading them to the far wall, where he opened one of the freezers and slid out a sheet-covered cadaver. Flicking a glance at both of them to ensure they were ready, he flipped back the covering, revealing a young and beautiful woman.

Behind him, Strike heard Robin’s surprised gasp.

-

“That’s Lula Landry!”

The words escaped Robin’s mouth before she remembered where she was, who she was with. Fortunately, neither man seemed put off by her outburst. Indeed, Strike had simply hummed in agreement and stepped closer, bending his considerable height to get a closer look at what Robin thought was the girl’s face.

“There aren’t any marks on her neck,” Nick told him.

“What kind of marks are you looking for?” Robin asked.

Strike straightened and pulled a folder from the deep pocket of his coat before handing it to her. She flipped it open to find additional pages to the files she’d been reading all morning, pages listing out additional details on each victim, ones that made it clear why the supernatural division was taking the lead with this case.

She flipped through each of the pages before looking back up at Strike. They’d all been completely drained of blood.

It was Nick who spoke, turning his attention back to the body on the slab in front of him.

“We checked her over entirely, just like the others. No fang marks. No obvious track marks either.”

“Do you think a vampire did it?”

Nick made a pained noise, “It makes sense, of course. Why else drain the blood? But, at the same time, it doesn’t make any sense. We have blood banks and suppliers in place all over London. If someone as going to resort to murder, they wouldn’t be in a state to do this cleanly.”

“No problems at the blood banks lately?” Robin asked.

“I’m there every other day to pick up my own supply,” Nick confirmed. “Nothing out of place. No new requests.”

He smiled politely at Robin, “Am I your first vampire?”

“I think so,” Robin replied, “I still feel a bit rude asking.”

“We’ll have to work on that,” Strike said, possibly more to himself than to Robin.

He nodded back at the young woman between them. “The Met thought this was a suicide. Tell me about it?”

“She jumped from her balcony, third floor penthouse. It was in all the papers,” Robin said, finally stepping fully up to the table with the two of them. “But the blood was drained?”

“Nearly all of it,” Nick agreed. “She still had about a liter left, more than any of the others. But there was something else.”

He carefully moved to reveal one of Lula’s arms, where odd discoloration was visible.

“If she still had enough blood pumping through her veins this would have been a bruise,” he explained. “Someone grabbed her hard.”

“The report said she fought with her boyfriend at the club she was at the night she died. About four hours prior to her death.”

Nick shook his head, “The bruising would have had time to develop. It would have been more visible and red. I’d say this happened within ten minutes of her going over.”

“Before or after the rest of her blood was removed?” Robin asked.

One of Strike’s eyebrows snuck upwards. It was a good question.

“That’s hard to answer,” Nick admitted, “If I had to guess I would say during or after, with less blood the bruise wouldn’t be as dark as would be expected.

“Whoever removed the blood knew what they were doing,” he went on. “They must’ve had equipment and training. No fang marks means they used a needle, but as you can see, there aren’t many apparent marks. An untrained hand would lead to more bruising.”

Robin knew the explanation had to be for her benefit. She mulled it over.

“Someone with medical knowledge?” she finally pressed.

“Or someone who’s got a long-running drug habit they’re good at hiding,” Strike agreed. He stared at the cadaver on the slab in front of them. “Doesn’t do much to narrow down the suspect pool.”

“The coroner knows to call me if any more come in with the same condition.” Nick told them. “If Wardle’s put you on the case, you’ll be my first call. I’ll text you about dinner, maybe at the weekend?”

“Yeah,” Strike agreed absently, knowing that if he didn’t respond Ilsa would find him. Of the two of them she was much more likely to make a scene.

“Robin, you should join us.”

As she turned in surprise, Strike shot Nick a look that screamed murder behind her back, though after nearly two decades of experiencing some version of the look he barely responded.

“Oh,” Robin replied, clearly surprised at the invitation. “Maybe. I’m still trying to get my feet under me with the new job.”

“Well, make sure you introduce yourself to Ilsa. She’ll be glad to hear Oggy’s got someone watching his back.”

There was another round of handshakes before they left the morgue heading back in the direction of the elevators. Robin was thinking back to her lessons, she’d known there was a large supernatural presence in the medical field, but it was a bit of a shock to have the first contact she made be a vampire, especially given the circumstances of their case.

“Robin.” Strike’s voice jarred her from her thoughts. His tone made her feel certain it wasn’t the first time he’d said it.

“Sorry, what?”

“D’you want to stop for some lunch before we head to Lula’s flat?”

“Sure.”

Ten minutes later they found themselves down the road in a small café, sandwiches and drinks on the table between them. Robin watched, astonished, as Strike dug into his second bacon sandwich, barely able to think about her own salad after viewing a body and talking about the undoubtedly painful way she’d died.

Instead, she sipped her tea and observed her partner. She’d expected to arrive at the office that morning to find that he’d pawned her off on someone else. Vanessa had laughed so hard she’d nearly given herself an asthma attack the night before, when Robin had told her who Wardle had assigned her as a partner. Her description of him had made him sound like a bitter, angry loner, but the man Robin had observed all morning had been professional, if a little abrupt. He carried himself with a confidence that reminded her of Hutchins.

“So,” he asked, once she finally began to poke at her leafy greens, “What d’you think?”

Robin fiddled with her fork as she thought about it, “I’d like to read the rest of the files first, but vampires are what make the most sense, aren’t they? Unless someone’s trying to point us in that direction. Have you had experience with anyone else using blood?”

“I met a shaman in Serbia once who used blood in his cooking, and in some of his rituals.”

Robin paused, her fork halfway to her mouth, before setting it back down. “Big shaman population in London, is there?”

“Nah. It’s more of a witch town,” he waved a dismissive hand through the air.

The tone he used made it hard to tell if he was being facetious or straightforward with advice.

“Was that while you were with SIB?” she asked slowly.

Strike nodded as he chewed another bite of his sandwich. 

“Wardle and Vanessa both said you were there for over a decade. Why did you join the Met?”

“Wasn’t so much my choice,” Strike told her. He leaned to the side and lifted a pant leg to show a metal rod where his left leg had once been. “I thought about going into private investigation, but Barclay was already working for Wardle by then and gave me up. Scottish bugger.”

Robin schooled her features, but she had been thrown by the reveal of his leg. She had noticed a certain heaviness to his gait but had attributed it to the gallons of beer he’d consumed the night before. Mentally, she shook it off.

“Sam made it sound like you knew each other when I talked to him this morning. He seemed lovely.”

“I got him out of a scrape when he was a squaddie,” Strike admitted. “He’s a good detective, but if he starts humming, or god forbid puts on that ugly silver jacket of his for a press conference, especially if Ilsa’s with him, you clear out.”

“If you’d worked together why didn’t Wardle partner you up?”

“He tried.”

Robin knew he’d been through nearly half a dozen partners in the last five years, not one of them sticking for longer than the month he’d given her the night before.

“So, why did you let Wardle assign me to you, Mr. Strike?”

Strike grimaced, “Please, don’t call me that.”

“What do you want me to call you?”

“Strike. Cormoran. Arsehole, if you’d prefer.”

Robin looked away for a moment before looking back at him. “Did you take me on because of the attack? Because of what happened? I see how everyone looks at me when they hear my name, even your friend at the morgue seemed to know who I was.”

“It was big news, we should have caught that call.”

“Cormoran.”

She said his name sharply.

“No,” he said. “No, I read your file from your time on patrol. I don’t need a partner, but you’ll be a good addition to the team. If Wardle thinks I can show you the ropes and keep you from getting killed for a month I’ll see what you can do.”

Even as he said it, it felt heavy. He had done all those things but what he’d said wasn’t entirely truthful and he hoped Robin wouldn’t continue to push. There was some guilt around what had happened to her, but she was a solid officer and she’d make a good partner for someone.

Robin nodded to him, putting the cover back on her half-eaten salad.

“We’d best go look at Lula Landry’s flat then.”

-

-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> more to come


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to @BlueRobinWrites for her continued beta-ing and cheerleading as always.

-

-

“So, how was it?”

Robin looked up from her desk to find Vanessa standing across from her, hands on the back of Cormoran’s empty chair, leaning forward with a wicked glint in her eyes.

“Hmm?”

“Did you survive your first day with Strike, or does Wardle need to assign you a new partner already?”

“No, it was good,” Robin confirmed, turning a page in the file in front of her. “We’ve been assigned a case and already been out to do some of the leg work.” She tapped the file, “I’m just reviewing all the victim files before I head home.”

“What’s Wardle got you working on then?” Vanessa asked teasingly, picking up one of the files and flipping it open. Her eyes went wide.

“Bloody hell. He assigned you the Bloodbath files?”

“That’s what Cormoran called them this morning. He was surprised you hadn’t told me about them.”

“Because this was Carver’s case, and I told you to steer clear of him if you could. I didn’t know Wardle had taken him off the case, let alone that he had assigned it to Strike. Fuck’s sake.”

Vanessa closed the folder and set it back down on Robin’s desk, throwing a scowl toward Wardle’s office and shaking her head.

“Are you nearly done? I thought we could have a glass of wine to celebrate your first day?”

“Absolutely, let’s do that. I’ll get in early tomorrow and finish reading these.” Robin flipped the folder in front of her closed as she agreed, gathering the papers and folders across her desk and piling them up. She slid on her coat and slipped her handbag over her shoulder. As she rounded the desk to join Vanessa, she placed the pile of folders in the top drawer of Strike’s desk.

The walk to the Tottenham was short, and the bar was already crowded. Vanessa headed straight to the bar, asking for two glasses of wine. She had gotten into the habit of bringing Robin there as she was completing her training, making a game of figuring out what species different clientele were based on a variety of factors.

Robin watched her friend look around the bar as they waited for their drinks. Several familiar faces were among the customers. Indeed, Strike was tucked away in a corner booth with Barclay and a woman that Robin didn’t know.

Instead of staying at the bar, as they had in the past, Vanessa nodded to her and started across the room in their direction. Robin followed, glad for Vanessa’s certainty. She still wasn’t quite sure of her footing with Strike outside of the workplace yet.

Sam nodded as they approached, pushing out one of the empty chairs with his foot. Robin sank into it with a nod of thanks as Vanessa sat beside her.

“Strike,” she greeted. “Ilsa. Sam.”

“Evening, Ekwensi,” Strike replied. He had a notebook and file pages in front of him.

“Are those case files?” Robin asked. She’d been thrown when he disappeared after their return from Lula Landry’s flat, a rather fruitless search that hadn’t turned up anything suspicious.

“The ones you read this morning,” he replied, flipping the folder in front of him closed and sliding it into the deep pocket of his great coat. “Thought I’d take another look over them to see if anything new jumped out after seeing Nick and the flat.”

“You must be Robin, then,” said the woman sitting next to Strike. She leaned across the table, extending a hand. “Ilsa Herbert.”

“Lovely to meet you,” Robin greeted her, shaking her hand. “I met your husband this afternoon.” She didn’t miss the side eye that Ilsa was receiving from her partner, or the fact that her face had practically lit up when she and Vanessa had joined them.

“I know you work with Sam, but I’m afraid I don’t know what you do for the department?”

Ilsa grinned, “Well, I suppose I am technically the press liaison. But I’ve got a law degree to back it up and the department is able to take advantage of my magic skills, and my relationship with Nick.”

Robin blinked.

“She’s a witch,” Sam put in. “Bloody scary one if you piss her off too.”

“And you’re a kelpie?” Robin asked him.

He smiled back at her, “Close. Siren.”

“But I thought… well, I suppose all sirens can’t be female.”

“Common mistake. I keep telling Wardle he should have me work with the recruits, but I think he’s afraid my voice will bewitch them before they’ve got a real understanding of the basics.”

“Or that you’ll teach them your bad habits,” Strike suggested into his pint glass.

“Either way, he’d not be pleased. And neither will the wife if I’m not home to put the baby to bed.” He drank the last of his pint and was off with a nod.

Vanessa had been watching their exchange, and finally chose the moment to speak up.

“Does Carver know you stole the Bloodbath case off him?” she asked, directing her question at Strike.

“Dunno,” he told her flatly. “Wardle handed it to me this morning and I’m certainly not going to be the one to tell him. Though Carver’s hardly going to put in the work a case like this one needs. He pushed three of the cases back to the Met before he realized there were any similarities.”

“The office won’t be quiet when he finds out.”

“Fortunately, I don’t spend much time in the office.” Strike replied, with a shrug, before nodding at Robin, amending himself. “We won’t be spending much time in the office.”

Robin liked the sound of that. 

“I do want to start digging through social media to see if I can find a connection,” she told Strike.

“Good, I’m going to make some calls in the morning, but I’ll be in by ten.”

“So, are you going to go high-class or low-class first?” Ilsa asked. “I assume you’re thinking vampires.”

“To start.” Strike shrugged. “I’m sure it’ll take fucking weeks to get an appointment with his lordship so I suppose we’ll be heading out to Whitechapel first. Don’t suppose either of you have anything that might interest the lot down there.” He looked back and forth between Ilsa and Vanessa.

“I’ll pack you some herbs,” Ilsa promised. “Send Robin to get them before you go. She and I can chat.”

Robin noticed the look of annoyance that Strike threw Ilsa’s way at her suggestion. The other woman seemed utterly unphased by it. There was certainly a familiarity between Strike and the Herbert’s that spoke of a longstanding friendship that she wasn’t going to step into the middle of tonight. She was glad when Vanessa finished her drink and they excused themselves for the evening.

Her first day had been more mentally taxing than she was expecting. Upon arriving at the flat she shared with Vanessa she shut herself in her bedroom. It had certainly been an interesting day, being assigned a case that was clearly well known among the department. But what really had her mind churning was her new partner.

He was clearly experienced, and knew the supernatural community in London, but it was hard to get an idea of what he thought about her. She didn’t quite trust that he had taken her on for some altruistic reason. There were other rookies he could show the ropes to. At the same time, he didn’t look at her like she was fragile, or going to break with the slightest touch, which she appreciated.

As she changed into more comfortable clothing Robin paused, examining the red scars running from stomach to chest, five raised reminders of what had gotten her into this in the first place. They stood out, stark and unpleasant, against her pale skin. When she covered them during the day she could almost forget.At least when they were covered, she didn’t have that reminder staring her in the face. 

She was looking forward to what Strike had promised at the pub, an active investigation that would take them out of the office and give her a chance to see the other world she had been learning about for months. Vampires, she could handle; there was so much literature about them. She was just relieved that her first case didn’t involve werewolves.

-

Strike straightened his back as he shifted in his overstuffed, but significantly aged recliner. He’d hoped for a more productive morning, but things had not been running smoothly.

He’d started by placing a call and a series of texts to an old friend that had yet gone unanswered, and had spent the better part of an hour now on the phone with the office of the Honourable Jago Ross, being shunted back and forth between secretaries. As he waited for one of them to pick up the phone, he shifted carefully through crime scene photos on his laptop.

Despite his preference for keeping on the move and taking action he hadn’t yet made it out of his cramped flat, instead making a morning of devouring tea, biscuits, and numerous cigarettes. 

From what he’d gathered in reviewing the case files, it had taken quite a bit of time for the cases to be tied together and designated to the supernatural division. The crimes they’d been filed under had ranged from murder in a home invasion, to apparent suicides, and even a carjacking. To the typical detective there wouldn’t be much to connect them, but upon finding all the bodies drained of blood in such a similar and unusual way it was clear the nefarious activities had been going on for well over nine months.

A teacher had been killed just the month before in what the police had called a home invasion. As Strike flipped through the photos of her flat, he carefully examined the shots of the broken door frame. It looked like it had been driven open through brute force, not with any kind of crowbar or tool, which had been a staple of similar crimes in the neighborhood.

Finally, the phone beeped off of hold in his ear and a pleasant, restrained voice echoed down the line.

“Viscount of Croy’s office. How may I help you?”

“Good Morning,” Strike spoke slowly. “This is Detective Inspector Strike with the Special Crimes division of the Met. I am trying to set up an appointment with the viscount in relation to a donation he was planning to make to the department. He’d asked for my advice on where to focus his donation when we spoke about it at the police gala last month.”

Although England’s aristocracy, especially those of the paranormal variety, were compelled to assist law enforcement, he’d always found it easier to get his foot in the door whatever way worked best.

“This Viscount is out of the country for the rest of the week, Sir,” she told him, “And his schedule is quite full. I may be able to get you in next month for an hour on…” 

She trailed off and Strike copied the information down on his notepad.

“October fifteenth at half-ten?” she finished.

“Hmm…” Strike took a moment, to pretend to mull it over. “It looks like I’ve got another appointment that morning. Let me see if I can reschedule it and call you back.”

“Of course, can I get your full name to hold the spot until tom-”

Strike disconnected the call, knowing full well that he wasn’t going to call back, and that if Jago heard his name he’d go out of his way to avoid him. Maybe he could get Barclay to call back later and charm her into an earlier opening with his smooth voice.

He spent a few moments more staring at the photos of the door frame before closing the laptop and scooping up the files he’d brought home with him the night before. 

He lived close enough to the office. The walk was short; allowed him one last cigarette before he arrived. Instead of going to his desk, however, he took the stairs down to the basement level.

Ilsa’s office door was closed, but after a cursory sharp knock he let himself in and found her seated behind her desk with her own files laid out in front of her.

“Morning.”

“Oggy, twice in one week. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“I wondered if you had those potions for Shanker yet.”

Ilsa smiled at him serenely, “Do you know you’re the second person to ask me for those today? Robin called down a few hours ago, asking about the herbs I promised you last night. Didn’t seem to know what she was asking for, but I guess she wanted to make sure it was ready by the time you got in.”

“She can think,” Strike agreed, leaning back against the wall. “Means she’s already got a leg up on half of the department.”

“You’re horrible,” Ilsa told him as she stood up, walking back to the counter and cabinets at the back of the room. She opened one of the sliding doors and pulled out a collection of vials.

When she came back to the desk, she showed each of them to him as she placed them on the desk between them. “Invisibility, two hours for a two hundred pound man; improved dark vision, can last three to six hours depending on natural eyesight; and good, old fashioned luck. Do you think that will be adequate?”

“I think Shanker is happy anytime he gets a visit from me, because he’s looking forward to whatever you give me.” He pulled the vials across the table and loaded them into his pocket.

“I have some willow bark for you, as well,” Ilsa told him, sliding a more significant sized jar across the table. “Should help you retain some control this month.”

He arched an eyebrow at her.

“Your partner was attacked by a werewolf half a year ago, and she acts much more relaxed around you than I’d expect, so I’m guessing you haven’t told her.”

Strike could feel his shoulders draw up.

“Thought so,” Ilsa confirmed. “I know you tend to be on edge depending on who you’re seeing, so I figured this would help keep the shift at bay.”

“Thank you, I suppose.”

“It’s bitter but if you put it in your tea you won’t even taste it.”

“Thank you,” he repeated, this time sounding more sincere.

“Oh, don’t think it’s free,” Ilsa smiled at him. “You’re having a curry with me and Nick next Thursday. No excuses.”

“Okay,” He agreed. “I’ll bring beer.”

“Good, Robin’s bringing a bottle of wine so that’ll work out well.”

Strike’s heart stuttered in his chest and he signed loudly, “Ilsa…”

“She’s gorgeous, Oggy. Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed. I’ve seen you chase down women for a lot less.”

“Weren’t you the one who just reminded me she was attacked by a werewolf?”

“You’re the perfect specimen to introduce her to, then. There are hundreds of werewolves in London, so she’ll need a better example of them after her experience was with that rabid wretch if she’s to do well in the department.”

“I’ll take that into consideration,” Strike told her, hackles inwardly raised, as though it was something he hadn’t spent considerable time thinking about already. He was, so far, content to hold off on telling her anything, letting her think he was a human member of the team, just like she was.

“Corm?”

Ilsa’s voice stopped him in the doorway as he went to leave, and when he turned back to look at her, he remained quiet.

“Remember than Shanker’s lot can be intimidating. Don’t give her too hard of a time if they throw her.”

He pressed his lips together into a thin line and he gave her a short nod before making his escape. Upstairs he made a cup of tea adding just a bit of the willow bark and started off into the bullpen. Robin was bent forward at her desk, consumed with whatever was on the screen in front of her. She’d shown the initiative and smarts that her file had spoken of, but he still wondered how she’d do in the field when there was a real threat.

The dark sweater and jeans she wore did not make her look like a police detective, which would be a blessing where they were headed. As she stood, he tried to peel his eyes away, but she looked up and smiled brightly at him.

“Good morning,” she greeted.

“Find anything good?” he asked, nodding toward her open laptop. 

“Plenty of social media presence from most of them,” Robin told him as he walked around the desks to take his own seat. “But not a single friend in common between the eight of them. Different social circles, different events, and hobbies. I did find a few that checked in at the same restaurants but months apart. It’s incredibly frustrating.”

Strike nodded, “Keep on it. Maybe we’ll make a connection somewhere.”

His mobile went off and he glanced down to find a message from an unknown number.

**tea house until 2**

It was already past noon. Shanker had always liked to give short windows.

“You ready to get out of here for a while?” he asked Robin, holding up his phone. “I’ve got a contact for us to see.”

“Yes,” Robin agreed, snapping her laptop shut, and closing the open file on her desk. “Let’s go.”

Strike watched her shrug into her beige trench coat and wrap a scarf delicately around her neck. He wondered what Shanker would make of her, Ilsa hadn’t exaggerated when she’d reminded him that he ran with a rough crowd.

“So,” he asked her as they walked down the street in the direction of the tube station, “What do you remember about vampires from your training? Societal structure specifically.”

“They’re one of the most predominant supernatural entities in Britain,” Robin recalled quietly. “There are members of their species at nearly every level of society, but they do have larger than normal numbers among the criminal population and the nobility, which some would argue are the same thing.”

Strike stopped abruptly, caught off guard by the last note of her recollection. He let out a surprised huff of laughter as Robin looked up to meet his gaze.

Robin shrugged, “In my experience with normal police work it’s true. Are you telling me it’s different?”

“No,” Strike agreed, “I wouldn’t say so.”

“So, which end of the spectrum are we going to see?” Robin asked, as they began walking again, Strike veering toward the bus stop rather than the escalator to the subway proper.

“I’ve reached out to a high-ranking vampire that I’m familiar with this morning, but his secretary says he’s travelling and busy, so we’ll have to be a bit more creative in figuring out how to make contact sooner, rather than later.”

“So, a criminal informant then?”

“A mate, who I’ve known since I was a teenager, who happens to be willing to trade some information on less than legal activities in London.” It wasn’t quite a full explanation about that relationship, but only a few people knew the full extent of how well he and Shanker knew each other.

They boarded the bus when it came, accepting standing room among the midday crowds. Strike fell quiet, knowing not to discuss case details in mixed and unpredictable company. He was happy to note that Robin followed his cue, pulling out her phone and scrolling through something on the screen, looking like every other twenty-something in sight.

She fell easily into step beside him several stops later when they stepped off the bus near Whitechapel.

“When we get there, order a drink,” Strike told her. “It doesn’t matter if you just hold it or nurse it the entire time, but you’ll need something to be let downstairs.”

“Anything else I should know?” she asked.

Strike met her eyes as they waited for a walk light. “Shanker conducts his business with all sorts. There could be any number of kinds of supernatural beings there, but you are with me. I promise you have nothing to worry about. Nonetheless, it’s good that you used a bit less perfume today.”

Robin had been about to thank him for his assurances, but the comment about her perfume caught her completely off guard. It took her a moment to start after him once the light changed and they continued down the road.

The front of the Old Tea Warehouse was a polite and polished navy and cream façade, nondescript in the afternoon light. She followed Strike inside, to a set of dark tables and bright walls. It was uncrowded, only a few small parties treating themselves to late lunches. Strike made straight for the bar.

“Pint of Doom Bar,” he ordered. “And for the lady…”

“White wine,” Robin added. “Just a half measure.”

Strike drained nearly half of his beer when the barman returned with it. Robin picked up her glass delicately and followed him as he moved toward the back of the building, where a staircase was mostly hidden from view. There was a man standing by the door at the bottom, fiddling with a lighter. He and Strike exchanged nothing more than a glance, but he stepped aside, letting them through.

Robin’s eyes darted around the room, taking in everything she could, her police training taking over. The room was dim, with a bar and half a dozen pool tables, only one of which was currently in use. Eight men of varying sizes and shapes were also spread throughout, all of them reminding her of her common suspects from her previous position.

“Bunsen!” A small, auburn-haired man called from the occupied pool table. He made his shot before standing and really taking them in, “You’ve brought a guest?”

Strike strode further into the room, sensing Robin moving with him, until one of Shanker’s enforcers stepped up in front of them with a distinctly canine growl. Several things happened at once, most noticeable to Strike, however, was the panic flooding through Robin at the sound. It set something off in his chest that he couldn’t quite name.

It only took a step to put himself fully between Robin and her apparent fear. He was glad that Ilsa had given him the willow bark now; without it he would have shifted, at least partially, in response. With it, he was able to maintain his composure, almost completely. He stood straight, letting his eyes glow bright and letting out a matching growl, too low for anyone but the enforcer to hear. 

“Hey!” Shanker shouted, “Enough a that!”

He made a rude gesture with his hand at the werewolf guard, who retreated to the bar with a roll of his eyes and a tense and annoyed set to his shoulders.

“Sorry, ‘bout that, he’s new,” Shanker told them, as Strike and Robin reached him. 

Robin had put on a brave face, outwardly she looked calm, but Strike could feel the waves of tension rolling off of her. Undoubtedly every other supernatural in the room could too. He brought his hand up, and placed it on the small of her back, hoping to ground her back to the moment a bit. It didn’t disappear completely, but abruptly cut down.

“Robin, this is Shanker. Shanker, Robin Ellacott.” He exchanged introductions perfunctorily. 

Shanker raised an eyebrow, “When’d the Met start hiring beautiful women? I might be in the market for a new career.”

Inwardly, Strike groaned, but Robin didn’t blush, just raised her wine glass slowly, and took a sip.

Strike put his beer down on a conveniently placed high-table, already littered with pint glasses, and dug into his pocket. One by one he pulled out the vials that Ilsa had given them, repeating her instructions as he placed each on the pool table.

“What d’you need?” he asked.

“We’ve had a string of cases recently,” Strike told him, keeping his voice low. “I wanted to see if you’ve heard anything about it. Discreetly.”

Shanker looked around at his men and gave a nod of his head. All but two of them headed toward the door, and he was quiet until they were gone.

“Blood. Lots of it.”

“Outside the usual channels?” Shanker asked. “No, even we usually get our blood legally. The hospitals are there in a pinch and the blood banks keep us well stocked.”

“No surpluses?”

“We got groupies for that,” Shanker said, raising his arms in a shrug. He turned his gaze from Strike to Robin, pinning her with a piercing stare. “We’re always looking for more if you’re interested, darling.”

The snort Robin let out was decidedly unladylike. Rather than answering she pulled out her phone, queueing up the folder of photos that she’d loaded up that morning, ones of each woman from their social media, alive, well, and happy.

“Do any of these women look familiar to you?” she asked, passing it over to him.

Shanker leaned a hip against the billiards table and took his time, going over the pictures with care. Finally, he passed the phone back with a shake of his head.

“Naw, I’ve never seen any of them before. Somethin’ happen to them?”

“Deceased,” Strike said simply. “Completely drained of blood.”

“Fuck,” Shanker stretched the vowel into a long hiss. “No, that’s not any of my guys. No reason for that.”

“Didn’t think so,” Strike agreed. “Can you keep your ear to the ground, let us know if there are any rumblings? You’re going to hear it before we do.”

“I’ll ask around. Discreetly.” he concurred. 

“Thanks, mate,” Strike said. He took another pull, draining the rest of his pint glass, before setting it back down and patting Shanker on the arm. 

“I’ll be in touch. Thank your witch for me.”

Strike nodded, and motioned Robin toward the back door, where they wouldn’t have to pass the men who’d filed out of the room earlier.

“Thank you, Shanker,” Robin said calmly, before following Strike.

Outside it was bright, the sun peeking through the clouds that had threatened rain most of the morning. Especially coming from the darkness of the basement level, it was almost like entering another world. Strike could feel every ounce of remaining tension drain out of Robin as they stepped into that sunlight.

Shoving a hand deep into the pocket of his coat he pulled out his cigarettes and lit one, wandering slowly and aimlessly down the road. 

“You alright?” he asked Robin.

“Well, when I woke up this morning, I certainly didn’t think my day would include a vampire propositioning me to join his blood cult.” 

His lips quirked up into a grin; he hadn’t expected humor.

“Robin-”

“I’m okay,” she cut him off, voice even, trying to be reassuring. “Thank you for stepping in. I think I was just caught off guard. Wasn’t expecting, well… you know.”

Strike nodded. 

“Shanker seems decent,” she continued as they started back toward the tube station. “He offer you a lot of help, does he?”

“When there’s something for trade. Ilsa is usually happy to offer up something, and Wardle looks the other way so long as their crimes only reach the normal Met. Plus, he owes me more than a few favors.”

At that, an almost displeased look crossed Robin’s features, and he could see her calculating unsolved cases. It was fleeting, and after a moment it cleared, behind her now.

“I might need you to start watching another social media account,” he went on. “To help us figure out where we might find the other side of things. He’s not going to be keen to set an appointment with me so catching him somewhere semi-public might be the easier path.”

“Sure,” Robin nodded, “Who are we looking at.”

“The Viscount of Croy.”

One elegant eyebrow arched as she turned to look at him.

“How do you know the Viscount of Croy?” she asked incredulously.

Strike heaved an inflated sigh; just thinking of tracking down Jago, of trying to avoid Charlotte, made him want to crack open the bottle of wolfsbane whisky stashed in his desk. He needed a pint.

“Well,” he said, knowing that once it was out there, he wouldn’t be able to take it back. “A few years ago I was engaged to his wife.”

-

-

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry Andy. More to come soon.


End file.
